


steps in a mile

by oh_simone



Series: tales from the golden age of livejournal [5]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8060053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_simone/pseuds/oh_simone
Summary: This dream is not the same as Hades' kingdom. Cobb is not Eurydice. Arthur is a soldier, not a bard.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Bringing this oldie in from the cold. Originally written in 2011 for [inception kinkmeme](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/15916.html?thread=33016620#t33016620)

How many steps did Orpheus take before he turned? 

More than one, more than twenty, more than a hundred, perhaps two thousand. The dream world is not the same as Hades’ kingdom; Cobb is not Eurydice. Arthur has no poet’s soul that can charm and wheedle the queen of hell, though Mal is just as beautiful and pale and deadly. What he has instead is discipline. Arthur was tempered by bullet and blood in the gritty harshness of Afghanistan. He’s seen comrades die in battle and friends die in isolation. He is a soldier, not a bard. This is a dream, not truly hell. 

But even so, when the marble tile gives way to grass and the soft clack of footsteps behind him go silent, the screaming urge to turn is almost unbearable, and the muscles along his neck tense into steel cables while he stops and breathes deeply. A thousand instances of paranoia crush his his mind; he’s misunderstood. Cobb was never behind him. Mal would never give up so easily. Cobb has stopped following him, and that suspicion is the one that cuts deepest of all.

Four thousand two hundred eighty-five. Four thousand two hundred eighty-six. He moves forward again, forcefully brisk, movements economized. Mal’s words jangle unceasingly in his skull: If you can lead him, you can have him. Cobb hadn’t looked at him, but Arthur hadn’t been looking at him either. All eyes on Mal as she had thrown her gauntlet. Arthur hadn’t let himself think about what this meant for Cobb’s subconscious.

How much farther? Arthur cannot calculate time in this dream. He thinks about loopholes in the challenge; confirmation with reflections, or touch. Have they been walking for minutes, or days? The grass is thinning on the ground. Arthur keeps his eyes forward on the path surrounded by blurred green landscape that seems to fall away from his feet with every step. He does not look back to see if Cobb is lost among the crumbled road. 

How many steps did Orpheus take before he looked?

Arthur is on step four thousand three hundred and fifty, but it could be more, or less. A driving rain has come upon him (them) suddenly, and the crashing, constant roar of it against the cobblestones is a constant percussive edge along his nerves. If he ever thought about speaking, it’s pointless now. He can’t get rid of the fear that he would be talking to himself.

There are no challenges that present themselves. There is no Mal nor faceless projections to fight, no canyons to cross, no mythical beasts to avoid. Just this silent march towards an uncertain end. 

And then Cobb speaks. Arthur stumbles in surprise, nearly cracks but physically wrenches his eyes and heads forward again. Cobb’s voice, so familiar and earnest, doing what it does best, cajoling and pleading and bribing, couched in the most appealing manner. He praises Arthur’s loyalty and offers sincere apologies. And in the most unsettling manner, begs Arthur to say something, anything.

Arthur’s words are crowding his throat, but he swallows them because maybe that isn’t Cobb, just another of Mal’s machinations. Arthur will not run the risk. 

Was this where Orpheus turned? If so, Arthur isn’t sure he would blame him, not now, faced with the same temptation.

He is suddenly grateful for the rain, which makes it easier not to listen. 

 

Another hundred steps, and the rain turns into snow.

Cobb’s voice grows louder, agitated. He wants to know if Arthur is angry with him.

Each step forward into a deepening snow drift.

Something is tugging on his shirt and he dares not hope it is Cobb. 

Knee-deep in snow.

“Arthur, please say something.” Cobb’s voice is in his ear, and Arthur almost freezes. Now, Orpheus?

The next step is the hardest, as is the one after that.

Is the warmth behind him Cobb? 

His walk has turned into a miserable trudging and he can feel himself growing numb everywhere. Not even Cobb’s relentless words have any effect on him anymore.

Suddenly, through the whistling, icy wind, he hears the strange familiar thrum of low, slow horns. And he knows without a doubt this must have been when Orpheus turned, because the great swell of relief and giddy joy that crashes through him is itself the greatest temptation, the irresistible moment that begs to be shared. The promise of an end was for Orpheus, enough to weaken his resolve.

Arthur is no poet, though. He is Cobb’s right-hand man.

Orpheus walked five thousand steps before he looked. Arthur will walk ten thousand and more before he does.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Imzy](https://www.imzy.com/oh_simone), if you're into that sort of thing!


End file.
